Jesus Et Cetera
by IndependenceBaer
Summary: Clare feels continually isolated and forgotten by her family and her peers, which leads her to seek refuge in the church. Though what seems like a gift from God may turn out to be the most horrific event of her life. Contains rape and abuse. Eli/Clare l8r
1. Chapter 1: Guardian Angel

As the final note of the organ resounded through the half-empty church, for the first time in awhile, Clare Edwards felt safe. Her lashes fluttered as she raised her lids from their blissful position to stare at Father Smith, who, noticing her gaze, gave her a warm smile. Turning toward the scattered, few people in the congregation he let out a self-satisfactory sigh and grinned before addressing his audience.

"Now wasn't that lovely?" he asked, his white teeth glinting in the candlelight. "Can you feel the Lord in this house, ladies and gentlemen?"

There was a distant murmur of "amen", that Clare dimly heard herself mimic, though she was far too lethargic to take notice.

All in all, it had been a tough semester. Her parents' marital troubles had seemed insignificant to the events that followed. Her misassumptions with Eli, being the center prize in his and Fitz's ongoing war, and, of course, Alli, Clare's former best friend being sexually assaulted by a senior named Owen.

Clare shivered, yet it had nothing to do with the frigid temperature of the church, nor the chilled, icy tiles beneath her Patten leather-clad feet. Though her and Alli had had a sort of falling out, Clare still could not deny how much she cared for the girl. The fact that she had suffered through something that had happened to Clare's own sister was almost too much for her to take. Was it _normal_ to have this much heartbreak in only fifteen years? Or was God testing her for a specific reason?

Clare sighed. Even with Alli's departure to a rape-crisis center for a month, Clare still doubted that she'd be this lonely; so lonely, in fact, she was attending a church service on a Friday night. She could imagine Eli and Adam lounging on a couch somewhere, watching movies, and laughing about foul fart jokes. Much to her disgust, she actually felt envious. Maybe it was because she hadn't even talked to the two since their English project before the break; the English project where she'd ruined everything. She thought, she _really_ thought there was something there. Could she really be imagining the sparks she felt when Eli's lips touched hers? Or maybe he was just a good actor. But what about the flirtatious banter they shared? That had to be real…. unless of course he was simply charming, a charismatic natural-flirt who had all the girls swooning after him.

And she had fallen into the trap…

It honestly pained her that she had been so stupid as to believed his crooked smiles and deep, breathtaking chuckles had been reserved purely for her. She was supposed to be smart. She was supposed to be different. She was the voice of reason when Alli's hormone-crazed mind exploded with schemes and tactics for getting boys' interests. So how could she believe that Eli truly wanted her? The first thing he said to her should have been a clue. 'You have pretty eyes.' An outward sign, practically screaming that he was a charmer, a boy who had every female he met wrapped around his finger. Yet she couldn't see that. She had believed that a boy as different and exciting as he, was interested in a dull, plain-as-Oatmeal girl like her.

Though those thoughts paled in comparison to what Eli really was: a friend. He was someone who taught her not to care about what other people thought. He helped her with her writing. He joked with her. He seemed to sincerely enjoy spending time with her. And that was something she needed: to feel _wanted_. Darcy was the perfect daughter, Jenna was the hottest cheerleader, and Clare couldn't compete with the cool girls on the Power Squad for the position of 'best friend' for Alli. Not only Eli, but Adam too. It seemed as though they were misfits united by the fact that they were all second best or different. She missed the feeling of belonging she sensed when being with Adam and Eli. Clare missed the living hell out of it.

"…Go forth in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…"

"_Amen._"

_Which is why, _Clare thought snidely, being jolted out of her reverie by the collective chanting of the amen. _I'm here, alone, just as I have been all week._

She stood up from her pew and quickly smoothed out the red velvet of her dress before maneuvering between the bench and the kneelers, and finally making it to the pathway between pews where she genuflected. She began her route to the heavy wooden doors of the empty church when a voice called her back.

"Clare." The call came softly.

She wheeled to face Father Smith standing mere feet before her. Surprised, she stumbled back, almost loosing her balance.

"S-sorry." She stuttered, as the priest's hands caught her upper arms and held her firmly in place. "Y-you startled me!"

He laughed, throwing back his head and closing his eyes as he chuckled. This close, Clare could see the blonde stubble on his chin as well as the mole that squirmed as his Adam's apple bobbed. Father Smith looked down at her, still grinning, blue eyes twinkling.

"I'm quite sorry," he said amiably. "You know, as a clergyman I don't get that too often." He shook his head. "Scary? Like 'Beware the Bible of Doom'?"

Clare giggled nervously, never having been in this close a proximity as she was now, and carefully noting that his hands were still clasped around her biceps. "I'm sorry. A bit jumpy lately, I guess. Kind of in my own world, you know?"

His grin faded, and his hands slid down Clare's arms, making a slow trail to her wrists where he gently wrapped his fingers. Goosebumps rose on her arms, and she shuddered.

He cocked his head one way, a thoughtful look in his eye. "If you ever want to talk, Clare, you can always come to me, you know that, right?"

Clare nodded, her throat feeling dry as she gulped. Her eyes were glued to his, hypnotized.

His piercing gaze seemed to disintensify as he smiled once more.

"Good." He said, softly. He tilted his head down and pressed his lips against her forehead, causing Clare's eyes to inadvertently close. "I'm always here for you, Clare Edwards." He breathed. "Always."

And with that, he withdrew, and after a quick wave, was out of her sight.

And Clare was left there, not sure whether to feel guilty or giddy or happy or scared. But she smiled, deciding that her emotions were running wild, and that she needed to accept this gift that God had given her.

The gift of a guardian angel.


	2. Chapter 2: Catching the Sickness Pt 1

**Hello! First off I need to thank you guys SO much for all the amazing reviews; you all literally made my stomach do flips! So I was very motivated and excited to start the next chapter, however it's going to be shorter than the first (which, yes, is very, very pathetic, but between freshmen orientation and otherwise, I'm quite limited on time). It is two parts—originally I was just going to put a page break in before adding the next part of the chapter, but didn't get to finish it, so I thought an update, no matter how short, might still be appreciated! So here it is:**

**Clare awoke with a stomachache.** And she had felt nauseated since. It was a curdled creation of excitement, nerves, and inhibitions that bubbled in the pit of her stomach and rose to her throat, coating it like bile after the first retch or pills taken one by one without water to wash it down. It was sickly sweet. Unbridled giddiness she hadn't felt in weeks pulsed through her, keeping time with the beating of her heart and the pounding at the back of her head. She wondered how it was possible to possess such hope and happiness, and yet feel so _sick_.

Everything was wrong. She was alone; more so than ever before. Her picture-perfect image of a loving all-American Christian family had been shattered, shards of its glass frame going their separate ways; Darcy to Kenya, her mother gratefully burying herself in fundraisers and charities, her father taking refuge in work… and all that was left was the final sliver of what was and what could have been, trying to hold the picture together while at the same time wondering what the hell happened. She had her heart broken. Not only because Eli had rejected her, but because he had taken away the one thing that was keeping her whole: the blissful nothingness of having friends, being accepted when your mother was pushing you aside to forget her own pain, and when your father had declared papers and business meetings more important than his own flesh and blood, and when your sister had left you to deal with it all while she escaped, while she ran away, leaving you with her problems, her image, her _reputation_.

_Yeah, _Clare thought bitterly. _Everything is wrong? So why do I suddenly feel like something might be going right? _

It was true, she felt somewhat _good_, even if it was accompanied by a bilious disposition she attributed to nerves, at least it was _something_, a break from the constant numbness she'd been feeling for too long. It had been a dark time. And it was only now with a shred of light upon the horizon that she truly realized how dark it was. She had questioned things: her worth, the reason she was here, God's plan, etc. She had lost faith, and honestly, she could see how it was possible now, though she'd never dare mention it to her parents or any of their friends from church.

Because it was all right. God had given her an angel to restore her faith and save her from herself, her doubts, and Clare couldn't be more relieved. As she got ready for the Saturday service (where she once again expected to see hardly anyone) her legs and hands shook and she felt light-headed. It was over. Over. Overoveroveroverover. She couldn't stop repeating the mantra over and over again, for never had the word tasted so good on her tongue. Her whole life, even when Darcy had been raped, even when her parents first started to fight she had prayed, she had kept faith. She believed that these horrible, horrible things had happened to her because God was trying to strengthen her in her spirit and her soul. What was that saying? 'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger'? 'No pain, no gain'? That had all made sense to her, and she had accepted it, though unwilling. And she had gotten Adam and Eli. She stopped Adam from being Gracie and burning himself. That had to count for something right? God was showing her that he had plans for her to help people and to be happy, just like any other teenager. But then, as soon as they had come, her gifts had been taken away, her rewards for sticking it out through thick and thin, revoked. Eli avoided her, and consequently Adam did too, though Clare didn't blame him. He was Eli's friend before hers, now that she thought about it she probably was only tolerated by him _because _of Eli. So what did that make he so-called friends? A boy who only hung out with her so he could spend time with his best friend, and an English partner that was so used to girls falling all over him, he had tried to let her down gently by pretending to be her friend? Those thoughts swirled about her mind, before she finally calmed down enough to slow her racing ideas.

_It doesn't matter, _she reminded herself, though the wind seemed to be knocked out of her lungs and her heart seemed to be deciding whether or not beating was worth it anymore. _I don't have to try to be their friend again. God's going to show me how it can get better._ Clare repeated this to herself several times and the more she said it, the easier it was to convince her it was true. She allowed herself a small smile as she thought about the better things that could be coming, maybe friends that understood her, wanted her for _her_, not for pity or otherwise. Maybe she'd even get a boyfriend; her own personal Edward Cullen. And it all started with Father Smith.

He seemed to _want_ to know about her, whether it be his job to or not. Isn't it a parent's job to be there to listen to and comfort their kids? Or a sister's job to protect their little sister? Yet Clare didn't see any of those roles being filled. As long as someone cared, as long as someone didn't think she was just a sloppy second… only then could she truly be at peace with herself.

She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and gave a tentative smile. Clare could see herself becoming great. Better than Darcy, better than Jenna, better than any girl Eli would end up with. She wouldn't be alone, and she wouldn't be afraid. She would finally reach the perfection she had been striving for. With that thought in mind, she gave herself a final grin before clasping her cross necklace around the back of her neck, not even needing to look at her reflection for the routine had become so familiar. She slid on her purity ring, fingering the engraved thorned rose vines that were etched across the silver. When she was younger, her parents had given her a purity ring with a little opal in the center and pink jewel hearts surrounding it, but after KC, after Eli, she had developed her own reason for abstinence, especially in the time where God was the last thing on her mind. She smiled feeling the message 'Every rose has its thorns.' brush against her skin from inside of the ring.

_Love might seem beautiful, _she conceded. _But it was really just heartbreak waiting happen. People cheated. People lost interest. People might've been in love, but one day they wake up and realize that they feel nothing for the person lying next to them. _

Clare shook away her negative thoughts. All she needed was the love of the church, the love of God, and she would be fine. She would be happy.

Clare just hoped—prayed—no one would take that away from her.

**Oh, wouldn't it just be absolutely horrible if that happened? ;) Foreshadowing? Maybe. Just a **_**tiny **_**but. Kind of. For those who reviewed with this question, yes, there is definitely something off with Father Smith. We just don't quite know what yet…. I **_**am **_**trying to hurry up with the Eclare, but I really want to build up a stong emotional bond between Clare and the Father, just to get the desired result when things 'come to a boil', so to speak, so forgive me for that! Thanks so much for reading! BE sure to review if you like it or have anything to say! -Breathe**


	3. Chapter 3: Catching the Sickness Pt 2

**Hello readers! Thanks for the patience on all of my author's notes and such; I know those are annoying, but I felt it necessary to clarify a few things. Alright. This chapter turned out shorter than I anticipated, but I REALLY wanted to post the next chapter, which, yes, is in Eli's point of view. **** That's the first chapter I've written where I really think I've done a good job… I just hope you guys agree! Anyway, thanks for all the support you guys. It means a lot, especially your understanding about school and junk like that. I'm going to give a shout out to allweknowisfalling for her sweet reviews (and concern for my mental health). Hope you guys enjoy!**

As Clare peddled down the streets of Toronto, the wind running its cool fingers through her hair, she could truly say she felt the presence of God speeding along with her. There was some air of perfection to this day, something that made her feel light-headed, as laughter bubbled in her throat. Maybe it was the warmth of the sun seeping through her paisley jacket, or the billowing breeze that cooled her flushed cheeks, or the fact that sanity and redemption were just within her reach. She nearly salivated in yearning to have the sweet taste on her tongue, not the vile, cottonmouth that came with… what could it be called? Depression? Clare scoffed out loud at this. _Darcy _had depression. _Darcy_ had wanted to kill herself, which was far more extreme than Clare felt…

Right?

Clare gritted her teeth. Her parents didn't need another episode from one of their children. In fact, Clare remembered that time with what one might call fondness. Not fondness, _pride. _For once, yes, Darcy _was _popular and _did _have all the boys have chasing her, but she was unstable, insane. Her parents looked at her with fear. Then they looked at Clare and smiled. They questioned how one could go right, when the other was so wrong. Her mother once told her that she couldn't have made it through that time without Clare by her side. She said she relied on Clare. Clare was her rock.

Now she was number two. And Darcy was back on top. While Clare moped in her room, her mother reminded her that her sister was making a difference, truly helping the world. Clare would like to help. She really would. If she just wasn't so…

There was that word again; the word that popped into her brain the second she tried to describe the emptiness she felt. Those periods of bleakness, where she felt like she was sinking down, down, down, in icy waters that threatened to take her breath away; when numbness swallowed her body whole; when she felt as if she'd be better off… it'd be easy for everyone else if she was just…

Clare shook her head fiercely. She _wasn't_ like Darcy. She would _never_ become Darcy. She would be perfection. Her grades would be flawless, she would have friends, she would be _happy_. She was sure of it.

It was God's plan for her.

As Clare entered the church, the heavy oak doors booming open as if to signal her arrival, she was already devastatingly aware that she was late. Her breath came in shallow puffs, and her flats clacked against the echoing tile as she jogged into the coatroom. Squinting in the shadow clouded room and scrambling to remove the over-sized, vintage blazer as quickly as possible, she didn't notice the hat rack to her left. As her foot caught on the mahogany leg, she squeaked in surprise, tumbling to the ground with an almighty crash.

She lay there for a few seconds, nose pressed against the glacial granite, frustrated and embarrassed tears threatening to leak from her eyes. Today had seemed so promising…

"Every time I see you, Clare, you seem to be having issues with balance." A warm voice said.

Clare slowly raised her head, eyes straining to see the blurred outline of Father Smith's face looming close to hers. She could vaguely see him in a squatted position, arms wrapped comfortably around his knees, smiling pleasantly. Even in the darkness, his grin seemed to glow a pale silver. The light caught his gleaming canines uncannily, giving him an almost feral, predatory look. In an eerie way, he reminded Clare of the Cheshire Cat from _Alice in Wonderland_; only his smile suspended in black.

Clare struggl ed to come up with an explanation, stumbling pathetically over her words. "I-I, I, um, well I—I…fell." She finished lamely.

Father Smith beamed and rubbed his bald spot absently. "So I see."

The reverend made no attempt to move and the two stared at one another, still as statues, only quiet and the slight scent of smoke filling the air until Clare's growing apprehension caused her to break the silence.

"So," she said "Um, why aren't you giving the sermon? I was really looking forward to it today…"

The deacon chuckled, and finally made a move to help her up. "Well, aren't you a regular saint?" he teased, slipping his hands into hers and pulling her to her feet.

Clare stiffened. "I don't like being called that." She said icily, removing her hands sharply from his. He held his hands up in mock surrender, and she was agonizingly reminded of Eli.

She hated it.

She hated that everywhere she turned, she saw him, that anytime she had a spare moment her thoughts always wandered to him—what he was doing, how he was feeling, if he missed her, if he had ever even _thought _about wanting her…

But she doubted he had. And she doubted Eli Goldsworthy had cared about her at all. And that thought was enough to make tears threaten to fall, enough to make her stomach churn, and her legs to become shaky and weak.

She hated it. Hated it all.

Hated being in love.

**It does suck, doesn't it? It's kind of funny, I just realized that I've been putting feelings in this story for a guy I liked a year ago. Wow. Shows how bitter I am, right? Oh well. It works. I hope you guys enjoyed this, even though it's just more filler. I know you'll like the next. **

**3 Breathe**


	4. Chapter 4: Breakable

**Favorite chapter so far right here. I just love it. I hope you guys do as well. I especially hope I got their voices differentiated correctly. I thought Clare would be a little more analytical and dry, whereas Eli plays with his sentence structure a bit more. Anyway, here it is. Eli's point of view.**

Eli Goldsworthy burrowed his ear buds further into his ears, wincing at the pressure, but craving an escape. His iPod was on full volume, blaring the Dead Hand loud enough to gain him dark looks from the occupants of surrounding tables even though he was huddled in the farthest corner of the Dot.

He pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window to his right, enjoying the chill that calmed the dull ache in his temple and the view of Queen Street before him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, longing for nothingness, for the thoughts to stop racing about his head, but could find no solace. He wanted a mind-numbing period where he could just _stop_. Stop everything from spinning and racing. Stop everything from hurting. Stop the guilt. The remorse.

_Just stop._

He was pleading now; to whom, he didn't know, he just knew it needed to end.

He needed to stop thinking about Clare Edwards.

Just her name made his body buzz and his lips quiver with the memory of her mouth against his; how her scent has invaded his nostrils, intoxicating him, making his vision swim, and now, how she looked wounded and forlorn every time she saw him nowadays. Her crystal clear baby blues seemed to darken to a dejected indigo, her forehead lined with misery when she passed by he and Adam at lunch or outside. She looked lonely, and it broke Eli's heart.

But all that—that pain, the sympathy, empathy—only fueled his desire to stay away from her. He needed to keep away, he _had _to, it was the only was to protect her.

Eli shoulders slumped and he slid further down in his chair, the hard wood pressing against his tailbone painfully. He refocused on the scene outside, trying to obtain the lack of thought he wanted. He turned up 'Paisley Jacket', though the attempt was proven fruitless, as the little blue bar was already as far as it could go.

'_I see your pattern, and I can match it… Trace the lines on your paisley—'_

A flash of faded paisley whizzed by.

'_Paisley.'_

Paisley.

'_Your paisley—'_

She was wearing a paisley—

_Jacket._

Eli's breath hitched as Clare Edwards pedaled languidly down the road, her curls blown back, an adorable flush branching across her cheeks, her supple, pink lips curled in a radiant smile. For a moment, the air went out of his lungs and he could see with painful clarity him standing up abruptly, chair legs squealing as they slid across the floor, before he made his way through the restaurant's front doors. He took long strides toward where she had stopped at a light, before she turned to him, eyes lighting up with surprise as her lips parted in silent question. But before she could speak—before she could make reality come crashing back around him—he kissed her, feeling soft lips, gentle as flower petals, against his.

And then he traced the lines on her paisley jacket, and touched, and touched, and…

His eyes snapped open and he dug his nails ferociously into shaking palms, Eli knew he should stop his fantasies. It would only make it harder. In the end.

But seeing her now… an over-sized beige blazer over a baggy vintage T-shirt that that just _barely _showed the beautiful slant of her collar bone, tucked into the high waist of her skirt, and her face emanating a glow Eli hadn't seen in so long… He wanted her. So, so much. More than he could say.

But he shook his head and grit his teeth, collapsing onto the table in front of him. He leaned his head on the edge of the table, biting his lip until it bled. He wouldn't be selfish. He would do the right thing.

He would not be the one to break Clare Edwards.

**Oooohhh.. **_**Eli. **_**Two questions about this chapter: 1) Is the past tense of grit, grit or gritted? 2) Did you notice the song I used? I couldn't find it online, so I just used what was in the episode. Also. Did you notice all the innuendo in this chapter? 1) "the HARD WOOD pressing against his tailbone painfully." 2) "Eli knew he had to stop his fantasies. It would only make it HARDER." Really? Did I HONESTLY do that? Totally swear it was unintentional, though!**


	5. Chapter 5: Believe

**Hello, readers! I haven't updated in a really, really, really long time, and I'm incredibly sorry for that, but you know my typical excuses, school, homework, social, etc. Not only that, but I also just want to get this RIGHT, you know? I hate it when I get writer's block and suddenly no words seem to flow together perfectly like they should in my head. So here's a fairly long chapter for the moment, and since I've neglected to update I'll try to post more as the week goes on. I've actually written about 35 pages of this story so far… which I personally think is pretty cool. **** A quick shout out to reviewers:**

**Faith Ciel—Why thank you! And yikes… that's definitely… not good, now is it? I might look into another church! 3**

**Skyblue1130—Haha, thanks! Yeah my style is dark and gothic because, well… I'm kind of dark and gothic. ;) Thanks for the review!**

**Curledruler—Thanks so much. I've lived the whole depression ordeal and am still dealing with some of the after-effects of it. I don't think I'll ever outgrow it or forget about it, but the only thing I can do is share my experiences and hope some good comes out of it, and that I can portray it accurately. Thanks for your review!**

**And finally, to one of my favorite reviewers (not that all of you aren't awesome), doxthextimexwarp. Dude, not only do I love your pen name (Rocky Horror Picture Show kicks ass!), but your reviews are incredibly sweet, eloquent and well though out. You are a constant inspiration to me (for reviewing ALL of my chapters, and actually READING my dumb author notes), as well as a good writer and reader. You always seem to get the point I'm trying to get across, and even add new insights of your own. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. **

**Thanks so much everyone! 3 Breathe**

Clare found herself in an unknown room, idly tracing the threadbare flowers on Father Smith's decrepit couch. She picked meticulously at vague stains, scratching off bits of crust with her pale rose painted nail. She could hear the distant screeching of a kettle coming to a boil and ceramic mugs clanking together, the noise resounding painfully against the aged walls of the compact study.

Clare looked up, blue eyes scanning the cluttered desk to her left, the rickety bookshelf beside it, a retro cat clock on the wall, and, finally, glancing to right and into the cramped little kitchen where the Father was currently bustling about, preparing tea.

The herbal scent graciously filled Clare's sinuses, cleansing the scent of nicotine and tobacco from her nostrils. She could see tendrils of smoke billowing from the kitchen doorway, looping and gliding through the air, morphing from shape to shape.

The vicar emerged from the room, two cups of steaming liquid in hand, and a cigarette clenched between his teeth. He had shed his robes down to only a black suit with his white collar peaking out at the neck. He beamed affably at Clare around his smoke, puffing grey fog into the air.

"This'll be our little secret," he said, and winked, demitasses clinking as the hit the glass of the coffee table beside her, annunciation slurred as he attempted to speak clearly with the presence of the butt in his mouth. "You don't mind, do you?"

Clare shook her head, though her eyes were beginning to water and her chest constricted miserably. Her face bore a grim, slight smile. She coughed lightly, covering her mouth genteelly, attempting politeness and decorousness, though a sharp pain was beginning to form in her temples.

She cleared her throat, grasping desperately at thoughts flying through her nervous brain, trying to make conversation. "So, seriously, no one showed up to the service?" she asked.

The reverend nodded solemnly, drawing the cig from his mouth, and sending graceful spirals circling around Clare's body, sinking into her clothes and lacing through her hair. He gave a lofty puff, eyes slanted upward, as if in thought.

"Probably busy with their own lives to worry about personal salvation. I suppose we all must succumb to worldly things at one point," he sighed, a draft of ashy exhaust leaking from his throat. "I mean look at me, Clare." He gestured to himself. "I'm a role model to young women, like you, everywhere, but I still give into temptation."

He sighed, rolling his eyes as he leaned back on his couch's arm and propped his legs on the cushions, ankles crossed. He took another drag.

"After awhile," He breathed, each syllable pronounced releasing a toke of nauseating smog. "You just… give in to desires. You just can't hold back anymore."

Father Smith tilted his head downwards, eyeing Clare forcefully, his gaze burning into her flesh like the heat smoldering the reverend's stick of tobacco.

"What I'm saying is, Clare, is that at the end of the day, we have to accept the inevitability that we're all just human."

Clare shifted uncomfortably. She didn't like that thought. What was the point of going through life, striving toward perfection—or, for that matter, anything—when all was said and done; you had to accept that you're always flawed, no matter how hard you try, no matter how hard you want?

She tensed. '_Don't think about it, don't think about it…'_

"Do you have any less-than-admirable desires, Clare?"

Her gaze shot to his, blue hitting blue, her breath catching at the extremity of his stare. Almost immediately, her head dropped, auburn curls spilling over her flushing cheeks, her eyes desperately boring into her shoes. Snippets of mental pictures flashed through her mind: Declan, face illuminated by cobalt light, sinking his teeth gently into her pulse, visions of Eli kissing her like she wished he would every time she glimpsed his face defiantly turned away from hers, and finally, her standing on top of a building somewhere, wind whipping her hair, and snatching any tears that threatened to fall; then, bare feet, slowly—yet firmly—walking towards the edge and just _falling…_

'_Free, free, free…'_

"Clare?"

Her head snapped up, jolted from her reverie, reality smashing into her gut, nearly doubling her over with its force.

"I-I-I um," she stuttered.

The priest sat up quickly, leaning forward with concern creasing his brow. He tore the cigarette from his mouth, rapidly firing an apology.

"It's okay though, Clare. I can keep a secret." He smiled demurely at her, winking. "I mean, if you can't trust me… who really can you trust?"

Clare held his gaze warily, a curtain of hair covering half her face as if shielding her from the world. She knew he was right. Wasn't this what Clare had prayed for? Someone to listen? Someone to ask, to take notice? She looked down at her folded hands, fiddling with her ring restlessly. She looked back up, taking a breath, poised to speak.

"I," she began, halting, then taking another shaky breath. "I…think about things. Things that I shouldn't."

The deacon nodded, his face emotionless, devoid of judgment, and for that, Clare was thankful. "Go on." He said softly, his voice warm and comforting, seeming to cloak her in a feeling of acceptance and relief, giving her courage to continue.

"Like I'm supposed to be this perfect, pure Christian girl, but I still think about boys and sex and everything. I get straight A's, but sometimes I slack off, or sometimes I don't do as well as I should, but even worse, sometimes I try as hard as I can, but _just can't do it well enough. _I _hate_ that I'm human. Because I know what I need to do, and what I need to be, but my stupid emotions get in the way. It's like there are these two sides of me that are constantly at odds with one another, and it's tearing me apart!" Clare sucked in a breath. Now that she had begun to speak, the words refused to stop tumbling from her lips. After releasing the secrets that had weighed on her shoulders for so long, she felt hollow and empty and lightheaded and scared. The only thing that seemed important in that moment was to release the tension that had constricted her for so long.

"And my parents fight, my sister's gone, I don't have any friends, and sometimes I just wish I was dead!" Her voice shook, and tears began their slow and silent descent down her cheeks. Her face burned with embarrassment and shame, but she couldn't stop the confessions retching from her throat.

She covered her face. "I know that it's a sin to take one's own life," she whispered, lowering her voice drastically from her previous shouts. "But sometimes I just wonder… if—if it's almost… _worth it_." Her voice cracked on the final two words, as she dissolved into sobs.

She had said it. Now it wasn't going away. She couldn't forget about it. It was here. Here to stay.

As she heard the creak of rusty springs, and felt a sympathetic arm around her shoulders, all Clare could do was bawl.

Father Smith attempted to shush her, rubbing her arm and whispering words of consolation.

"It's okay, Clare, it's okay. You're safe here."

He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close to his chest, so that she could feel the rhythmic thumping of his heart. She breathed in his scent of cologne and cigarette smoke, and embraced his warmth, clinging tightly to him.

"I've never told anyone that." She whispered brokenly, her breathing uneven, her body shaking.

The reverend's fingers buried themselves in her hair, combing it gently as his hot breath grazed her neck.

"Sh, Clare," he crooned. "You're just a lost sheep, remember the biblical stories? You just need to find your shepherd, and I'll be more than willing to help you."

Clare drew away from his grip slowly, her watery eyes meeting his.

"Really?" she asked breathlessly, and he beamed widely at her, eyes softening.

He smiled sadly, tucking a curl out of her red, puffy face. "Of course." He mumbled, fingers lingering on her cheekbone, tracing it lightly.

"Now." He said resolutely, grasping her shoulders firmly. "Tell me what else is causing these… these…"

"Suicidal thoughts." Clare muttered bitterly.

The deacon frowned slightly. "I suppose that's one term for it, yes."

Clare breathed deeply, trying to calm her shallow breaths, and still her jumbled thoughts.

"It—well, it sort of started with a boy," Clare admitted, feeling her cheeks heat to a bright scarlet in mortification and disgust. Had she really turned into one of _those_ girls? The ones that thought about killing themselves _just _because of unrequited love? She was sure there was more to it; Eli was just a mere facet in her darkness, a factor further proving that love didn't exist.

The Father nodded thoughtfully, his expression neutral as though he had expected as much. "And I'm guessing this boy broke your heart?"

Clare sighed deeply, rubbing her temples that were throbbing dully do to the strain of her tears. "Yes—well, no. Like, he's only part of it, you know? I have all this stuff going on around me, so you'd think I wouldn't even have time to think about him, but it exacerbates things. With all these horrible things happening, the only way I can seem to cope is by focusing my attention on the positive—that's what I've been told to do my entire life—but then when that goodness, that promise, that _solace_ is gone… it takes everything to a whole new level." She glanced up and back rapidly, attempting to gauge the Father's reaction, but refusing to look him in the eyes. She let out a shuddered sigh, closing her eyes tightly against a newly forming headache. "I'm sorry, I'm probably not making any sense, and I'm probably just over-reacting, but—"

She was cut off by warm flesh pressing against her lips. The finger was perspiring slightly, she decided from the heat of the cig, but it still bore the compassion behind the gesture. Clare felt the hot brush of skin glide over her cheek, a hand softly cupping her face, causing the hairs on her arms to prickle with daunting electricity.

"Clare." The priest exhaled, gusting scalding breath across her face, casing her in a cloud of bitter stench and heat. She timidly opened her eyes, which widened slightly at the diminutive negative space between her body and his.

Clare made a small noise in the back of her throat in surprise, which made the deacon smile, eyes glinting in amusement.

"Clare, _never _worry about any of that." He said gently, his thumb tracing the ridge of her cheekbone, sending chills up her spine. "I'm here for you. All for you. It's you and me against the world."

He slowly removed his finger from her lips, allowing it to trail down her neck and graze the cold metal of her cross necklace. He twirled the chain around his finger off-handedly, watching it flash as it reflected his gleaming grin.

"You're a good person, Clare, and even more important, a good Christian. God wants me to help you." He said, flicking his eyes up to meet hers, his grin widening to something feral.

"I think he knows it will make us both very, very happy."

**Creepy. Very creepy. Especially after reading some of the news articles about the English boys who had been molested by the Vatican clergy. I'm really glad I go this chapter over with because now, with a bunch of build-up and emotional set-up done; I can finally get into the really dark, emotional stuff, which I LOVE writing about. Hint: 'THE SCENE' as I shall now call it (where all the emotional trauma begins) will probably be either in the chapter after next, or the one after that.**

**Much Love, **

**3 Breathe**


	6. Chapter 6: Looking Up

**Jesus. Christ. Finally. A new update! So sorry it took so long; you're patience means the world to me! Erm. Yeah. I'm SO tired of filler! But I feel as though I need to establish a good relationship first as well as giving insight into Clare's mental state over the past few weeks. THEN. And only then, can I get to the stuff I enjoy, which means longer chapters, actually readable material, etc. Thanks to all my Tumblr followers (see my profile for link), reviewers, and DreamWriter123. She's the author of Just Breathe. Just getting her feedback gets me inspired. Enjoy.**

As Clare sang the final hymn, adrenaline spiking her blood with each note, she couldn't help but smile at the world around her. For nearly a month it had looked so bleak, so dreary, the colors slinking off their canvas, leaving dull shades of grey in their wake, black and white blurring into a numbing monotone of mundane. But now, Clare noted with increasing ecstasy and overwhelming relief, the colors were slowly starting to swim back into focus, sparking life into the church. The flickering flames of lighted candles exuded vibrant golds and oranges, while the rainbow light drifting through stained glass cloaked her body in a radiant skin of hues, seeming to only add to the glow already gleaming on her shining face.

This past stretch of darkness—for it couldn't be measured in time—seemed so indefinable, abstract, just a blur of black and bleak. Clare was submerged in the lukewarm waters of monotony with blasts of frigid anguish that slashed her body deliciously with the earth-shaking feeling of beautiful sorrow. And it pierced her heart, mutilated her beyond recognition, yet it was a break—a blissful nirvana from the constant, aching presence of omnipresent melancholy. She fell in love with her agony, lusting for the pleasurable pain, the masochistic torment that came with the brief surges of wretched misery, reducing her to an animal, a primal beast, with only her emotions to lead her blindly forward. She remained immersed in the suffocating waters of her own feelings, trapped within the confines of her mind.

Sometimes she opened her eyes, glimpsed the ceiling above, contemplated rising to the surface, to the world outside of the animalistic, dark fortress she had come to know as home, but shied away from the light like a brute fleeing the ominous flame.

It's only when the pressure built within her lungs, the trivial task of breathing nudging her tediously, as her vision swam, swam, swam, the lights becoming brighter, twisting, mutilating, sneering, and reaching out to her, beckoning to her with their warped, neon fingers.

_Maybe it's better not to breathe._

But inevitably she'd broken the crystal, calm surface, gasping in deep breaths of reality, feeling it burn her tonsils, the taste stale and brittle on her tongue. Panting, puffing, letting her heart thud to a shuddering stop, and slowly melting back into the pool once more; a vicious cycle of promising death and devastating life.

It was only at times like these that Clare could truly say she truly felt alive, not just like her being was merely a robotic pawn in the sadistic game of life. Here, in the familiar and safe church, with the organ blaring, drowning out her thoughts, transpiring negativity into melody, Father Smith's warm, gentle voice trailing softly across her skin like luxurious velvet, comforting and lush, she felt the hopeful spark of life illuminate within her listless body.

Even her parents had taken a break from their senseless bickering to take notice of her improved mood. Her mother raised her perfectly plucked brows as Clare devoured her breakfast that morning, feeling hungry and _alive _instead of hollow and worthless. Her father clapped her on the back when she had come down to the table, make-up painting fabrication and color onto her sallow skin, hair, clean and neatly curled, a false smile drawn sloppily on her face, and he _beamed_, saying how good it was to have his little girl back, that he was glad that 'grumpy' phase of hers was over.

_Phase… yeah, right, exactly. Just a phase…_

_ She's just a phase._

Was it all a dream?

"Clare!" her mother's voice hissed, slitting her train of thought, slicing through her contemplation like a razor, as her hazy eyes snapped into focus.

The organ's melody no longer wafted through her ears. Instead, painful silence constricted her airflow, threatening to swallow her as mortification heats her face. The song is over. The people are all sitting. Sitting. Staring. Scrutinizing.

Whisper, whisper, whisper.

The irrational, yet consuming fear that they Know griped her, squeezing her throat with its icy fingers, as she struggled to breathe. She hastily slumped into the pew, head hung, heart pounding.

Her emotions fluttered restlessly about her body, flapping and flitting, nauseating butterflies—crows—pervading her stomach. She can't stand being watched. The piercing stares of others judging and evaluating, examining and dissecting her being with their penetrating gazes assault her mercilessly, haunting her soul, as though by watching her they can uncover her secret.

Her rescue—salvation—came from the interruption of an angelic voice, intercepting lightly with a charismatic laugh that jingled and resounded like church bells, filling the church with warmth.

"It seems as though over-vehement Miss Edwards was too caught up in the hymn." Father Smith chuckled; head tilted back, the dark mole on his throat dancing joyously as the deacon's Adam's apple bobbed with hearty guffaws.

The cornflower blue of his sparkling eyes disappeared briefly as his lid descended and he directed a sly wink directly at Clare, slipping her a genial grin.

Clare blushed, yet her heart slowed from its erratic palpitation, and the searing humiliation ebbed as the congregation chuckled good-naturedly. She sunk lower into the bench, spine curled. Breathing out a tremulous sigh of relief, Clare basked in the solace of being invisible, taking unfathomable consolation in the absence of impaling eyes.

She felt the glow of the Father's sympathetic smile shine through the curtain of curls shielding her blushing face from view, looking up only when he began to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his gentle voice drifting through the small chapel like the smell of fresh cookies, familiar, comforting, and warm. "Miss Edwards has been going to the church for as long as she can remember, yet she and I have only become properly acquainted within the past few days."

He paused to flash her a delicate grin.

"In a world that is constantly changing, constantly spinning and moving, one would assume the only thing we, as people, can rely upon is religion." He said, his pure, white robes gliding behind him like tendrils of smoke as his leather shoes paced rhythmically in front of the altar. "And yet, we are distracted by the pitfalls of our own mundane, insignificant lives, blinded by the glaring, glittering colors of our television screens, and preoccupied with our own human desires and needs.

"Adults. We have spent generation upon generation teaching our children how to act, to follow our examples, when they themselves are so pure and beautiful in their youth. Jesus favored children. Children are without sin. We must ask ourselves as parents, authority figures if it is not we that are truly doing harm, polluting the next generation's minds with the smog of sin."

The church had fallen into a deathly silence.

In Clare's experience, no one wanted to be faced blatantly with his or her flaws. Never. Even now she felt her mother squirming beside her like a criminal under an interrogation light. Clare, herself, felt slightly restless, and she found herself aching for the pure and innocent world of her childhood, back before heartbreak had hardened her, back before she drowned in frigid waters.

Before she had felt like she wanted to die.

The uncomfortable silence humidified the church, stifling in its awkward bluntness. Each movement, every small twitch, seemed to intensify the sweltering atmosphere, and Clare struggled to breathe while being suffocated by the flaws of humanity.

Suddenly, the deacon smiled. His breath-taking grin gleaming like the sun shining through the clouds of misery pervading the chapel. The tension began to diffuse.

"But this young lady," he said, voice so praising and warm, feeding the hesitant flame of joy within her belly. "I have seen her when others do not come, when they cannot be bothered to. This girl, this young, fifteen year old girl, still turns to God in her time of need though she has been placed through much adversity. This girl has become a godly _woman._"

The bishop's eyes shimmered, his lip curling.

"Clare," he murmured, voice low and tender, face radiating such sincerity it took her breath away. "I am so glad you are alive."

The world stopped.

Her lungs melded to lead, sinking, restricting her ability to breathe, while her chest collapsed on itself.

_I'm glad you're alive._

Someone saw her life as viable, substantial, _worth something. _She was… valued.

"Men and women of the congregation, please join me in applauding this wonderful young lady."

Claps resounded against the looming stone walls, echoing in Clare's ears as she felt a full-blown grin climb her face. She caught father Smith's eyes, seeing only promise and belief in his compassionate face as he applauded with the rest of the church.

Maybe things were starting to look up.

**Yay? I'm so discouraged in my writing abilities right now. I honestly don't know what to do about it; I just don't feel like I'm good enough… Oh well. I don't think there's any sexual innuendo in this chapter, which makes me sad, but if you find some be sure to let me know! Also, check out my Tumblr if you will, just to drop me a couple notes each week telling me to get off my ass and WRITE. Also, to establish more of a habit, I will now update REGULARILY on Fridays. If I do not, feel free to stone me… virtually.**


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